Skin to Skin Contact
by Empresss.Spiral
Summary: A surprise visit to England's house yields unexpected results...


**A/N: Oh, thank God! I was terrified I wasn't going to get this up by Independence Day. Annnddd…. It's still the fourth. At least where I am. So… yeah. Happy Independence Day, to all my fellow 'Murricans out there (and that goes to all of you... not just the 'Murricans). Hope you enjoy! Read, review if you would like. That would be pretty awesome. I'm sure this will be riddled with problems, so if you see anything too horrible, just tell me and I'll try and fix it. **

**Also, I've never uploaded anything before, and this website is weird as shit to operate when you're not just blindly running up and down columns to find a story. So if the formatting is weird… I blame this website.**

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The scenes of London flew by America's taxi-cab, coming and disappearing in a blur of various shades of gray. A vibrant color - the window display of a new, youthful shop or the hair of a young city-goer - would disrupt the steady the flow of neutral colors every few moments, breaking the comfortable but monotonous tone of the many old houses and buildings that lined the streets. To America, this old, classic part of the city looked more like a retirement community than the rich, bustling district that England claimed it to be. He didn't particularly mind traditional or old places - he himself owned more than one stately, colonial-styled manor nestled in the southeast, overlooking old plantation grounds - but he didn't understand England's insistence that his old, creepy buildings were "hip" or "exciting". It was true, of course; America just refused to acknowledge it.

He stared out the window thoughtfully, watching the people as they passed. He was dressed in a nice suit (his boss was always pestering him to dress nicely while traveling), his hair perfectly tamed except for his one stubborn cowlick, and he would have cut a very nice figure were it not for the large McDonald's cup he was sipping Coke from. He himself was highly of the opinion that European sizes were too small, and he longed for his home already.

It was a warm spring day, and America's cab was bound for England's townhouse. Due to some problems with booking his flights and hotel (or just his common stupidity), he had arrived in the United Kingdom three days early, and hadn't been completely sure of what to do with himself. He figured he would just drop in on England, prior notice be damned. It had happened before, and he was sure it would happen again.

After half an hour of looking vaguely out the window and making one-sided small talk with the cab driver (the British were _so_ unfriendly), the cab rolled up to the curb directly in front of an old, fancy townhouse, and America darted out of the taxi door. He paid the driver and lugged his many bags up the steps to the house by himself, cursing the stupid, old fashioned doorbell that England refused to get rid of. He attempted to pull the cord without setting down his soda and, to his pleasure, it worked.

Not even five seconds after he had rang the bell, one of England's maids swung the door open with the lightning-fast efficiency the nation expected from **anyone working in one of his houses**. She gave a slight quirk of the eyebrow when she saw America, but she quickly stepped back and allowed him into the house, where she called for one of the male servants of the household.

"Here, Mr. Jones, let me get that for you," the maid, a young lady whom America had met many times over the years**, **reached for one of the bags on his shoulders, but America leaned out of her reach with a small smile.

"Nah, I'm good," he said cheerfully. "It's easier for me to carry than it is for you." She looked uneasy for a moment, and was about to say something, when the male servant that had been called for appeared and the head maid of the house, an older woman, came tottering down the stairs, barking orders.

"Christopher, take those bags from Mr. America. And you, Emma," she snapped, shooing the maid out of her way, "you should be in the kitchen. I swear, one person shows up and the lot of you just fall to pieces. Shoo." The younger maid scowled, and America gave a small quirk of the lips when he heard her mutter something about "that old bat" to Christopher, half tempted to mention to her that he had known Lucy since she had been younger than Emma. He didn't, of course, just loaded his bags onto Christopher, careful not to let go of his soda cup in the process, and accepted greetings from the eldest of the maids.

The ferocity that Lucy showed for those under her control immediately dissolved when she turned to America, and it was like greeting a grandmother on Christmas. "America," she said fondly, pulling his face down so that she could plant a kiss on each cheek. "England wasn't expecting you until Wednesday. Are you staying a while? Emma, put some te- some coffee on for Mr. America," she called through the house, shouting with the lungs of a woman half her age.

America shrugged with a smile. He loved England's staff. They were far more lively than the country himself. "I will if England doesn't kick me out. Is the old man home?"

"Yes, he's in his study. I'll have Christopher put your things in your room," Lucy said, all smiles for America but impatiently waving her fellow servant, who was buckling under the weight of all of the luggage, up the stairs.

"Sa-weet," America said with a smile, darting up the first set of stairs, and then the second. "ENGLAAAAND!" He bellowed as he ran. He didn't understand how a simple townhouse could be so spacious, but if he had actually taken England's hobbies seriously, he would have suspected witchcraft. He flew past three doors, all of which bore empty bedrooms(one of which the servants had dubbed his), and straight into the one that lead to England's master chamber. He crossed the bedroom and flung open the door that lead into what England called his "private study", but really resembled more of a miniature library.

"Hey, old man, I-" he was immediately greeted by a book - large, leather bound, and green - to the head, and a somewhat loud "SHHH".

"America," Came England's voice from the general vicinity of the desk, sounding somewhat exhausted but not too angry. "To what do I owe the displeasure of seeing you?"

Clutching his head, America reached down and grabbed the book - _Macbeth_, he realized, with a roll of his eyes - and huffed. "You didn't have to throw a book at me-" he started, but his voice trailed off when he actually looked at England.

England sat at his desk, reclining in his tall, old-fashioned chair. Everything about his study was old fashioned - shelves and shelves lining the walls, all crammed with old books, the mahogany desk, the furniture. America was sure that there was an inkwell and a quill floating around somewhere, and he half suspected that pulling a certain book out would lead to some secret passage. The weird, oldness of the room was all too familiar by now. It was England who was putting him off.

The older nation sat with his feet up on his desk, a habit from his old, disrespectful days when he had owned the world and thought that he could do whatever he wanted. He was slouched lazily back into the chair, which was tipped at a somewhat precarious angle, and he was completely naked from the waist up. He cradled a book in one hand, and he held a sleeping baby on his shoulder with the other. He barely looked up from his book when America had entered, and he didn't recognize America's presence at all until he realized that the younger nation had been completely silent for at least two minutes.

"What's wrong with you?" He asked, his legs slipping down from the top of the desk, the chair righted again. "Jet lag? If you have jet lag, you can go find a bed and lay down. Or, better yet, a hotel. Do you need me to phone one for you?"

America regarded him confusedly. "Uh… no…" He watched England sit up a bit straighter in his chair and roll his eyes in irritation, shifting the baby from one shoulder to the other, careful enough that the kid didn't wake up. After a moment, America slipped into his normal, brash persona, and flopped onto one of the stiff, green armchairs. "So," he started, and then said loudly, with his characteristic charm and charisma, "who the hell let you have a baby? Or are you robbing the cradles now?"

England rolled his eyes. "This is Phoebe's boy," he said, shifting the baby around again. America noted, once more, that England was _still_ shirtless. "Isaiah. He's about six months old, and getting him back to sleep is a pain in the arse, so I would love it if you kept your voice down, you moron."

America raised an eyebrow. "Phoebe got married?" He thought, his mind reeling back to England's young, lively chef.

England nodded. "Yes. Seven months ago." Something in America's face made him scowl and roll his eyes (again), and he stood up to put his book back onto one of the shelves. America could see part of the baby's sleeping face over England's bare shoulder. "Don't act like that. This is a free country," he said, crossing back to his chair. America gave him the customary "Whatever you say" look that he gave to all other countries that claimed to be "free" or "democratic".

"Sure, man. Whatever you say."

Rolling his eyes, England sat back down. He passed a hand over the spot where his shoulder joined his neck, as though it was paining him. America sat for a moment, fidgeting, while England began shifting through stacks of paper and talking about preparations for the next meeting, and letters that he had sent to America that probably hadn't been read yet (he was right). America was still focused on the weird fact that England wasn't wearing a shirt. He understood that people didn't have to wear shirts - hell, he wasn't even sure he owned any shirts in his California home - but _England _not wearing a shirt was weird. Shirtlessness wasn't his normal state of being - normally, he was wrapped up in a nice suit and coat, or, around Christmastime, one of his stupid sweaters. The weirdness of the situation was still driving America crazy.

He cut England off midway through a sentence that had to do with something related to the economy.

"Dude, why the hell aren't you wearing a shirt yet?"

England looked up at America in exasperation, and said, slowly, "I don't have to. It's a hot day. It's my house. It's my country. I can wear whatever I want. Anyway, I was sa-"

"But you're holding a baby!" America cut him off again, pursuing the subject. "That's indecent. Why the hell are you holding a baby, shirtless? That's just… weird."

England gave him a blank stare, then looked at America as though he had just said something absurd. Then he set the letter he was holding down, and adjusted the position of Isaiah as he said simply, as though it were totally obvious, "Skin to skin contact is good for babies."

America took a moment to stare. "What?" He asked, again looking at England as though he were crazy, and though he half wanted to wrench the baby boy from his arms and whisk him away to protection. "That's weird. Go put a shirt on."

"Why?" England asked, caught somewhere between irritation or amusement. "Ask anyone. Skin to skin contact is good for babies." He paused a moment, and then said, as though it were nothing, "I did this with you."

A look of horror crossed over America's face instantly, and he let out a loud squeal of "Ewwwwww!" He stood, flabbergasted, his face heating up in the way it always did when England brought up something from his baby years. England just ignored him, and went on.

"…and you turned out relatively fine. Almost," he said, looking America up and down with something close to, but not quite, disdain. Then he looked out the window. "And your brother. And Sealand. And Australia. And New Zealand. And South Africa. And the Falkland Islands, Kenya-"

"That's enough!" America squealed, nearly shoving his hands over his ears. He was trying to contemplate the horrible things he was hearing, but it was impossible.

Behind his desk, England smirked an evil smirk, made all the worse by the sleeping baby that was laying on his chest. "Sit down. It's not that strange. Just ask a parent, or a nurse. You could ask one of the other former empires you've known. You should have seen Spain," he said, giving another exaggerated roll of his eyes. "He was always half naked." He raised his eyebrows suddenly, as though he realized something, and fixed America with an inquisitorial gaze. "Didn't you have colonies of your own?"

America screwed his face up. "Yeah, but that was Cuba. Who wants skin to skin contact with Cuba? And Guam, and Puerto Rico. And I had the Philippines. But they were all mostly grown up by then, and they didn't exactly…" he didn't know how to put it delicately, so he said it as bluntly as he could, "like me." He leaned back and took a slurp out of his cup of Coca-Cola. It was dangerously low, so he pretty much just slurped at the ice. England made a face, and then produced a small trash can from the side of his desk. He held it out expectantly to America, who eventually relented and tossed the cup in, pouting. England reclined back in his chair, and about a minute later a foot was back up on his desk.

"You were probably a shitty parent," England said offhandedly, looking out the window. America nearly cut in with a retort of "Not like you were much better" or "I don't want to hear that from you", but the words caught in his throat. England just went on, "You were too young. I don't know how humans can get it down so easily," he said, his eyes on the sleeping kid. "I've been at it for hundreds of years, and I still haven't quite got the hang of it."

They were both quite for a moment, England looking thoughtfully out the window, and America subconsciously gazing at the trash can with longing. After a few moments, America thought it was safe to interrupt England's silent musings. "So," he said with something that was almost caution, "can you put a shirt on now?"

England's eyes flew straight to the ceiling, and he gave an irritated groan. "No, I can't," he snapped.

"Please?"

"No!"

"Pretty please?"

"America, it's my house! Didn't I just explain to you that I could masquerade around here using a sheet as a toga and no one could do a thing about it? I could walk naked down the bloody street, and no one would be able to do anything about it." He shifted in his chair a little. "And besides, I'm comfortable."

America groaned, running a hand through his hair. "But it's so weeeeeeeeeeird. And you have a baby, and I can see your tattoo when you turn around."

England made a face, and then leaned forward and picked up the telephone on his desk and hit one of the buttons. "Hello, Emma? Yes, could you ask Christopher to bring up some tea, and a cup of coffee for Am- Mr. Jones? Thanks, love." He hung the phone up, and gave a small shake of his head. "The fact that they still don't use your real name is beyond me. Where were we?"

"Shirt."

"Right. No," he looked down at Isaiah, who was still sleeping so peacefully that America was almost worried that England had killed the kid. The baby twitched a little, snuggling in closer to England's neck. "You used to love sitting with me like this. And you never wore clothes anyway, so it didn't matter to you what I wore." He gave another little smirk. "Hell, you thought I wore too much clothing, but that's unsurprising coming from someone who was always naked."

America had become red to the point that he appeared to be nearly sunburned, and he protested loudly. "I did not! I always wore clothes. You always _made_ me wear clothes, you were so pick-"

"No, America, I make you wear clothes now. And for a good reason. But when you were younger - you could barely walk, but you would go traipsing off into the forest, and four hours later you would come back out, stark naked and covered in tribal paint."

"I-"

"And whenever I got out of a bath - the second I was out of a bath tub, you would come flying into my bedroom, wanting to cuddle. Or you would just jump right into the bath tub on top of me. You fell asleep on me while I was in the bath tub once, and I couldn't move at all. The servants just had to keep bringing hot water, because if I moved at all you would just bawl hysterically and hold onto my neck so hard that you damn near killed me."

"Stop." America was leaned forward, practically doubled over, with his head in his hands. The only things that could be seen through his blonde hair were his knuckles, white from the force with which he was holding his hot face, and a patch of red skin. "Just… Just stop." At this rate, he was going to break his glasses, and England was going to have to pay reparation fees for Texas.

At that moment, the door to the study opened, and Christopher entered, bearing a tray that held a teapot, two teacups, and a cup of coffee. He didn't say anything about America's newly acquired case of depression, just set a steaming cup of coffee onto the small table that separated the chair America sat in and the one next to it. He put the entire tray on top of England's desk and poured his employer a cup. "Thank you, Christopher," England said, taking a sip of his tea. "If Bartholomew calls, tell him I'm not here and that he needs to remember to go pick up Mr. Jones from the airport on Wednesday. Could you fetch the baby formula from Phoebe?"

Christopher nodded, and then turned and left. America drank his cup like a zombie, still recovering from the wounds his ego had taken.

"You live to torment me," America said. "I'm convinced of it. And you British make some weak-ass coffee."

"Isaiah is going to wake up any minute now."

"D'you remember my first meeting? Like, with all of the other countries?"

England rolled his eyes. "No."

"Well, we got in a fight. You ended it by shouting at me in front of the entire room that you would rather put up with my bedwetting problem for another twenty years than listen to my 'insolent drivel'."

England paused for a second. Isaiah stirred on his chest. "Huh. Well." He shifted the baby, but he was already waking up. "You did have an awful problem with wetting the bed. You would wet your bed, and then come running in and try to sleep on _my_ bed with me. And you'd need a bath first, but you hated bathing, so you would just cry. And then you would come to bed with me and just roll around incessantly, and take up the entire bed. You were the size of a two year old, and you took up an entire bed at times," the baby was wide awake now, and had begun to cry. England stood up, and bounced the baby on his hip a few times, shushing him and whispering quiet greetingsto him in a baby voice. "Are you awake now? Yeah? Oh, it's a tragic world, isn't it? Oh. Yeah, I know. Well, Christopher is bring you food, okay?" He looked up at America, and picked up the conversation as though nothing had happened. "You would sleep directly on my face. Even then, you were attempting to kill me."

"I hate you," America said miserably.

"I've heard that before," England said, busy tickling Isaiah, who had begun to laugh and was bubbling from the mouth.

"Yeah, you think he's cool now," America grumbled darkly, watching the baby. "Just wait. Four hundred years from now you're going to be screwed, kid. He's going to tell everyone all of your deepest secrets. You will never have a girlfriend."

England gave a dramatic roll of his eyes. "You are completely capable of terrifying women away from you without my help, thank you very much. And I'm not going to wait four hundred years to humiliate this one. Maybe twenty."

"You are the devil," America said solemnly, resting his face on his fist. The effect distorted both his face and his speaking. "People like you are the reason there are homicides."

The door open, and both America and England looked up, England still bouncing the crying baby around. Christopher held a rather girly diaper bag from the crook of his arm, a warm baby bottle in his hand**. **He had a telephone between his shoulder and ear. He crossed the room, muttering apologies to the person on the phone, and held out the bottle to England, who began the process of feeding the baby. Isaiah gratefully grabbed at the bottle with his tiny fists, desperate to eat. His crying subsided almost instantly.

"Er… one moment, sir," Christopher said to the person on the phone, setting the floral print diaper bag onto England's desk. He knocked over a few paperweights and stacks of letters in the process, but England didn't seem to care, being more occupied with feeding the baby.

"Who is it?" Arthur mouthed to his servant.

"Bartholomew," Christopher muttered back, an apologetic look on his face.

"I'm not here," England whispered, shaking his head. During the entire exchange, Alfred stared at Isaiah as he chugged down his bottle of formula. The kid was already half done.

"Er… uh, I'm sorry, sir. Mr. Kirkland," England rolled his eyes, and Christopher collected himself, "I-I mean, _England_, isn't available. Oh. It's important? Er… How important, exactly?" Christopher removed the phone from his ear a little, and covered the part he was supposed to speak into. "He says it's _very_ important, Mr. England, sir."

"Oh for the love of God," Arthur scowled. "America, find me a damn binky," he said, motioning to the diaper bag with his shoulder. "What is he even talking about?"

"I-I'm not exactly sure… Er… Military? …No, no… economy… Er… meeting?"

America began rooting through the diaper bag, making faces at most of the things he had come into contact with. He had very little experience with babies - especially real, human babies - so he spent half of his time pulling various items out of the bag with the tips of his fingers. England's desk was rapidly becoming a mess of clothing, diapers, and baby toys , but America didn't care. He held a light blue binky in the palm of his hand, a satisfied look on his face. England scowled at the mess.

"Put him on speaker phone," England whispered, "but don't tell him I'm here."

Christopher nodded, and fiddled with the phone. America edged his way in between the two of them, and triumphantly thrust the binky into England's line of vision**. **England just kicked at his ankle and motioned for America to get out of the way with a small jerk of the head. From behind, America heard a small "click" and suddenly the sound of some kind of wailing came flooding into the room. America, England, and Christopher all stood stock still, listening as England's assistant let loose a torrent of words, very few of which could be understood - especially to America, who felt that the accent just made the words even more unintelligible.

England's head shot up immediately, and he began to shake it from side to side.

"I'm in Washington DC. For a week. Without my cell phone."

Christopher opened his mouth to speak, and at that moment the baby released the tip of the bottle from his mouth and began to scream and wail. The bottle fell from England's hand, and the top busted apart from the rest of the bottle when it hit the ground, soiling the dark, expensive carpet immediately.

"Shit!" England exclaimed loudly, eyebrows knitting together. "You, America - get me a damn rag to clean Isaiah up with - and that binky."

America scrambled to do as he was told. He had emptied the diaper bag all over England's desk, so he had to sort through England's business documents and the baby supplies to find a rag. He clumsily mopped baby formula from the baby's chest and face. All the while, England continued on with a steady flow of quiet curses.

A small, shaky voice came from the receiver of the phone. England froze immediately, visibly tensing up.

"E-England? Mr. England, is that you? You're there. Sir, this is urgent, I really nee-"

"Dammit, Bartholomew!" England cursed, head toward the phone. He held the baby's ears protectively with the hand that wasn't holding him. America tried to awkwardly tuck the binky into the child's screaming mouth, but the baby kept spitting it back out, effectively coating all three of them in tears and saliva. "You couldn't give me one day? Let me put this baby back to sleep, I'll call you back in ten minutes. Christopher, hang up," Bartholomew began to protest from the other end of the phone, "Now."

Christopher did as he was told, and then rushed out of the room, hastily following England's orders to "find a damn carpet shampooer".

"This is ridiculous," England lamented, cradling the baby in his arms and rocking him back and forth. "I can't have one bloody day to myself. Could you pick that bottle back up and wipe the top off?" America bent down and picked up the bottle, sloshing even more of the formula onto the carpet. He silently prayed that England hadn't noticed, and handed the bottle back to England, who stuck the bottle back into Isaiah's mouth and began singing something to the baby that sounded oddly like it had been plucked from _The Phantom of the Opera_.

America watched silently as England fed the baby and whispered to him. He had collapsed into one of the high-backed green chairs again, exhausted by his small endeavor into childcare. England was fine, apparently, despite the fact that he was covered in tears, spit, and baby formula. America didn't understand how anyone could take care of a kid for even a day - and England had spent _centuries _doing it. At the bottom of his heart, he felt a feeling he couldn't quite place - but if he could, it would be something akin to gratitude. And at least a little bit of humiliation.

"-merica. America, you idiot, listen to me when I speak to you!"

And there went the moment. America's head shot up, and he realized that England was berating him again, yelling something at him about grabbing a rag. America shot up and did has he told, clumsily placing a spit up rag over England's bare shoulder. He would have been flustered, most likely, but then England immediately slung the baby over his shoulder and began the process of burping him, and Alfred's face distorted in disgust as the baby spit up onto the rag. It made him insanely grateful that he had never been a parent.

After a few moments, the room was almost completely quiet, and England stood rocking the slumbering baby back and forth, still humming. America watched as England, careful not to disturb the baby, swept the dirty baby towel from his shoulder and folded it with one hand. He caught America's eyes, and motioned with a small jerk of his head toward the door.

America watched England walk to the door, the tip of the baby's head visible over England'sshoulder. He could see England's tattoo as he walked away, the delicate cords of six string guitar climbing up England's spine and disappearing up the base of his neck. America couldn't help but roll his eyes.

England's bedroom was large and nicely furnished, done up in various shades of green - picked out, no doubt, by Lucy, who had always held the idea that it was a good color for England. America closed the door behind the study behind him, careful to do it softly, so as not to wake the baby. England was laying the baby down in the center of his four poster bed.

"Watch him while I go get dressed," England said quietly as he walked past America. From his dresser he produced an old**, **faded Beatles T-shirt that America was sure had to be nearly fifty years old. England bundled the shirt in one hand as he walked to the bathroom. Alfred heard the sound of the faucet running, and could see Arthur through the crack of the door, mopping spit from his chest with a damp rag. "I can't believe he can't even leave me alone for one bloody day. Even God got Sunday off, dammit," he walked out, wrestling to get his T-shirt over his head and onto his damp torso. The shirt fell down over his head and back, the guitar tattoo disappeared, and America's wish was granted.

"Ain't no rest for the wicked," America called from where he sat on the bed, staring at the baby as though he may spontaneously combust at any moment in time.

"Don't I know it," England replied from the bathroom door, his voice muffled by the sound of the towel that he held to his face. "Hey, pick up that phone and call Christopher and Emma up here to watch the baby," he dropped the towel directly onto the floor, "Lord knows it will take both of them."

America wrinkled his eyebrows, but picked up the phone and called for the servants nonetheless. "Where are you going?"

"To go talk to that damn Bartholomew," England responded darkly. America felt for the poor assistant's life.

Christopher and Emma showed up a few minutes later, armed with an arsenal of baby toys. America wasn't entirely sure where they had come from, but he wasn't sure he needed to know the answer anyway. There were so many that he could hardly see Christopher's face. The two spilled the toys onto England's bed as soon as they could, which prompted a scowl from their employer.

"Right," England said, pulling a thin jacket on. "If anything goes wrong, you can call me. Phoebe is downstairs making dinner if you need her help, but don't go bothering her. America…" his voice trailed off for a moment. "You can just… go to your room. Or something. Stay out of trouble and away from the kitchen."

And with that, he disappeared, leaving America alone with two somewhat eccentric servants and a baby.

* * *

England let out a deep sigh of relief as he slammed the front door behind him. He slumped back against it immediately, completely exhausted from his time with his assistant. Lucy was soon at his side, prying his jacket from his noodle-like form. He made very little effort to help her, and he earned a thwack up the side of the head for it.

"You've got the body of a young man, England," she huffed. "You're fine."

"No," he groaned, still leaning against the door. "I'm old. And tired."

"You're ridiculous, is what you are," the maid said. England just kind of slammed his head back against the door, earning him a round of tutting. And pain.

"Is dinner finished?"

"Just about," the maid said, patting England's jacket down and hanging it on the coat rack by the door.

"And Emma and Christopher?"

"They put the baby to bed an hour ago. They're setting the dining room." England didn't point out that it was nearly useless to set the dining room table when it was only him and one other guest, but he didn't bother - his servants always got worked up when he had a guest, no matter who it was, so he let it slide.

"Ah. And America?"

"Upstairs. Should be in his room."

"Right, then," England said, passing a hand over his face. "Thank you, Lucy," he squeezed the old woman's shoulder, and she gave him a peck on the cheek. He began to ascend the flights of stairs, grumbling to himself about his "old bones" as he went.

He was glad he wasn't wearing a tie, because he would have been choking. Yawning, he headed back toward his chambers, not sure if he actually wanted to eat before going to sleep, or if he would just collapse directly onto his bed.

England trudged through the hallway. Halfway down, he saw America's room. The door was closed, and he could hear the sound of either the radio or the television. Possibly both. He rolled his eyes.

He was nearly to his bedroom when he heard something weird coming from his room. At first, he just thought it was the sound of the baby crying in his sleep, so he picked up his pace. He assumed someone would have heard something on the baby monitor if something had happened. It took a moment for him to hear the other sound in the room. It sounded like someone else was in the room, talking. He got to the door and silently creaked the door open a crack. What he saw sent his eyebrows flying up into his hairline.

"Shit… uh… uhm… Look, I'm sorry! C'mon, you were totally all chill earlier…"

Standing in the middle of the room, right next to the bed, stood America. He was holding Isaiah and he was completely shirtless, and he was cussing profusely. England watched in fascination as America tried to shush the screaming baby. He looked genuinely upset that the baby wasn't sleeping like a little angel, and England nearly laughed at the expression on his face. Well, there was only one way to learn.

"C'mmooooon," America groaned, and he began to sing to the baby in a quiet, horribly off-key voice. A grin split England's face completely, and he tried hard not to laugh. America was trying to sing the same song that he had been singing to the baby earlier, but he knew very few of the words.

England spent a few minutes watching. It was surreal to see one of his own coddling another baby that he had taken care of. It was, in a way, sad to see, and England wondered if he had looked that young when he had held his first colony. He watched America for a moment, and he was suddenly glad that countries couldn't reproduce. He didn't know how he would have been able to watch all of his colonies grow up and have children of their own, and even though it was unfair, some part of him was happy that America had come kind of late into the imperialism game. America could hardly hold a baby without dying, first off…

He would have been fine with watching for a few more minutes, but the screaming of the baby was beginning to drive him crazy, so he edged the door open even more. He stood in the doorway for at least a full minute watching America before he loudly cleared his throat. America swung around, giving a small,humiliated scream, and for a moment England was scared he would drop the baby. America looked mortified**. **

"E- England, I - it's just - and he was screaming… I- I-"

"You're an idiot," England admonished America without any real force. He held his hands out, "Here give him to me," England said, lifting the baby gently from America's hands. There was no resistance from America, and the baby's cries subsided almost immediately. "Go get dressed and get ready for dinner. But if he throws up on this shirt, I'll throttle you."

America stammered and tried to explain himself, but England shooed him out the door, and he obeyed with very little resistance, floating down the hallway in a haze of humiliation. England smirked after him, absentmindedly bouncing the baby in his arms until he was asleep again.

He laid the baby back down, and stopped to look at him for a moment. He saw America at the same age for a moment, and he unconsciously smiled a small smile. He reached over to the night stand and picked up the baby monitor, setting it directly next to Isaiah on the bed, just in case. He turned the light off, leaving only one lamp on, and then disappeared down the stairs.

He dined with America that night. It was a very quiet, peaceful meal, a first for the two of them. America would hardly look at England for the first half of the meal, and he was still blushing even when he did talk. England had to work to conceal his smiles.


End file.
